


Of the wind and the plains

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Cultural Differences, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, set Abundance on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18050321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: After the turmoil of the war with the ASC, the many revelations, the search for home, Melvin lingers in Noctis, uncertain about his life and what to do with it, and what to do about that thing that's developing between him and Dandolo. He wants to know more about the city and Dandolo before deciding, and he gets an opportunity to do so.





	1. Chapter 1

Noctis is a living being.

Not only alive as any city is alive, but alive by itself, too. Noctians often speak of their city in such a way that makes it obvious they think of it as an entity separate from themselves and from the canyon, separate not only politically or geographically, but existentially, too.

This relationship Melvin organizes in his head in two triads: Noctis–The Prince–Noctians, and Noctis–The Prince–The One in the depths of the Labyrinth. There is another triad connected to these two but different: Noctis– _onekorokī_ –Mars. (They usually translate it as “sandsinger”, and use this translation in casual conversation, but Melvin has found out the complex meaning of the original term and understands why this translation that conveys only one side of it, is used in the everyday context.)

It is difficult to understand Noctis, and more often than not he mixes things up, just as some Noctians seem to consider “Mancer” to be his title. But Melvin has gotten used to the peculiarities.

To Noctis being _alive_.

Noctis is the people, yes: if they’d wanted, they could pick up their possessions and move whenever they wished and Noctis would move with them. But Noctis is also…

It is strange, and he cannot explain it. But he’s developed an ability to catch Noctis’s emotional state, and he doesn’t know what to do about the fact.

(The fact that Noctis feels like home.)

Now, the city is buzzing with excitement. He makes sure he’s picked it up right, then goes to Frances.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary: Frances is teaching a hapless fresh guard to not be kicked by an ostrich.

“My dear young friend, you’ve got to grab the edges of the shell firmly, so that she wouldn’t— Never mind, she already has. Clean yourself up, please, and get that bruise locked upon. Good afternoon, _corvo_.” They say it so cheerfully, and it always brings heat to Melvin’s neck.

He wants…

Dandolo has offered to swear him in — make him a part of Noctis in full — but Zach needs him and how could he be in the Order _and_ in Noctis—

“Master Melvin, sometimes you think too much. Here,” Fran thrusts a bucket, something in it heavy and rolling, into his hands. “Make yourself useful.”

He grips the bucket and looks at its contents. Salt rocks. Then he looks at the ostriches. They don’t have eyes and they feel their surroundings through vibrations in the ground and the air — but he is certain they are _looking_ at him. At least Notol isn’t here… Is he?

“They don’t like me.”

“Nonsense. They don’t like _anyone_.”

Fran picks another bucket and goes to the flock who immediately surround them. Melvin picks a rock, rubs the satisfyingly uneven surface, and holds it out to the nearest ostrich. It reels away from his hands (always too much electricity, but he’s better now that he’s with D— now that he’s rested and calm), and stretches its long neck and tickles his palm with feelers.

“Chief?” he calls for Frances, picking another lump.

Frances has told him he could call them by their name alone, but perhaps it is the soldier in him, needing rank, hierarchy, or maybe just some kind of clear system to the world.

“Yes, _corvo_?”

“What’s going on? Everyone is so… lively. Some festival?” The memories from the Carnival still bring heat to his face and neck and chest and _everywhere_ , by the Shadow. Fuck, but it was astonishing.

“Ah, you’ve noticed. You’re getting good at this. Going native.”

Their praise warms him — until Frances follows it with a few clicking sounds that send the flock to Melvin. His stomach drops to his feet, and he tries to hand out salt lumps and not get crushed. One of the ostriches — taller than him — rubs against him with its shell, and it _hurts_. “Eh, Chief? This one has a spike on the shell.”

Frances makes another set of clicking noises (they remind Melvin of the times when Frances and Dandolo “talk” in Noc-Binary), and pushes several ostriches, making sure their right leg, the metal one, gets the blunt of kicks when ostriches scramble away, then Frances curls their fingers under the rim of the ostrich’s bespiked shell and yanks the beast towards themself. The ostrich worbles and wobbles to them. “Such negligence. Pyari will check twice the next time her rig gets tangled on the spike.”

Melvin hands a salt lump to the ostrich in sympathy.

“You’ll find what the excitement is all about tomorrow.” Frances takes the bucket from him. “Thanks for the help! Now off you go.” They move away, and the worbling, gargling, trilling flock wobbles after them. “And make sure D has at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep!”

He performs a tactical retreat before they find something else to make him hot about.

***

The balcony is blessedly empty — which is yet another sign that something’s different, because the balcony is rarely empty, even at this hour when most of the city is slow in the afternoon heat.

There is only Dandolo on one of the ottomans, a painted board he uses instead of a desk lying across his knees, a tablet glowing blue on it. Dandolo is wearing a plain shirt, the vestments of the day gone. Melvin doubts Dandolo would sleep at night, but he always hopes.

Dandolo tilts his head, this way, that, stretching his neck.

“Been bent over work the whole afternoon?” Melvin says. Dandolo always works hard — but now more than ever.

Dandolo looks up at him, smiles. So beautiful. “Yes.”

“Should have a proper desk.”

“Not useful much.”

It’s true, and Melvin’s suggestion is mere teasing.

Dandolo’s languidity is not just theatrics — but he does get restless and needs to change places when he’s deep in thought or looking through dockets, reports, tables… Starting at the balcony banister, moving onto the carpet, to an ottoman, to the bed. The board on his knees, a bowl with candied oranges and a pitcher with tea at hand.

But now, his smile is tired, and Melvin goes to him, behind him, channels his charge into his hands to warm them up and puts them on Dandolo’s shoulders. They are tense, and Dandolo leans back to him with a sigh as he presses into the muscle.

He likes Dandolo in a plain shirt, not only for the way it allows him to admire Dandolo’s powerful body (the mark on his shoulder a dark shape), but because Dandolo looks… not the Prince, not even Paon. Just Dandolo. Domestic. (He doesn’t allow himself to think “mine” yet.)

Working on Dandolo’s shoulders firmly and slowly, he catches a glimpse of the datapad and papers pinned under it. Maps and schemes. “Developing a new caravan route?”

“Scum asked me because I know these places myself. With all the unrest after the revelation about Earth, he wants to make sure mutants don’t come into too much harm.”

The Valley has been smuggling out many mutants, but sometimes they ask Noctis for the cover of merchant caravans, or invite them for joint rescue missions. _Pitirross_ is Scum’s Noctian name, although he is not a sworn merchant — and the Valley calls Dandolo _Lahmu_. And so, peace and ties grow between two places — while the rest of Mars is tearing at itself.

“You should take a break.”

Dandolo sighs again. “I have too much to do.”

“ _Fran_ said you should take a break,” he says with a smile.

“When you combine your forces, you two can do anything,” he grumbles. “Even though I am the Prince.”

“The Prince is the subject of more laws than any other citizen. It’ll do you good.”

Dandolo yawns. “I suppose a short nap won’t hurt.” He looks up, green eyes like gems. “Will you stay?”

To be wrapped in each other in the warmth and closeness of the alcove with the draperies separating them from the whole world… Dandolo’s head on his shoulder, his body soft in the sleep that claims him by the plains time and not city time.

“Yes.”

***

He doesn’t sleep much in the afternoon, content to watch over Dandolo. Dandolo takes a lot of space in his sleep (perhaps some part of him does realize he’s in the city and can take up as much space as he wants), and his arm is heavy when he slides it over Melvin’s chest.

He doesn’t mind at all.

He’s uncertain of what they are. There was that first kiss, there were other kisses; there was the Carnival, the darkness of the storm season… But what _are_ they, really? In the eyes of Noctis (under the watchful _Ocio_ ), in Dandolo’s eyes. In Melvin’s own eyes.

He is glad he doesn’t have to decide yet — but there is that bit of fear, cold and jaded, inside him that tells him he hasn’t the time, everything might change tomorrow, next hour, next moment… Take everything — while you still can.

He presses his nose to Dandolo’s braids and inhales deep the sweetness of oranges.

A chime tinkles over the balcony, the sound somehow close in the darkness of the alcove.

He asked once: why do you place so many chimes in the city?

And the merchant he had asked, answered with a smile: we invite the wind to play. If we make it feel unwelcome, it will not fill our sails.

Dandolo wakes, but doesn’t move up yet, only twines their fingers. It’s warm and nearly perfectly dark in the alcove — their own shelter. Dandolo’s fingers are long and sure.

“О чем думаешь, ворон?” Dandolo’s Low Abundancean is peculiarly specific. A gift from the old friend Anton, Melvin assumes.

“О тебе.” In the darkness, he strokes the knuckles of Dandolo’s hand with a pad of his thumb. Like the Three Peaks and a slightly more raised one, Olympus, the knuckle of the middle finger.

He wonders whether he’s simply replaced one city with another, one idea (of a Corporation, of war) with another (of the Prince, of freedom).

He rolls away from Dandolo, feeling like he’s plummeting into the cold.

“Melvin?”

He bites his knuckles to not scream.

He has to get out.

Melvin tumbles out of the alcove, the contrasting cold of the balcony slamming him into the chest. It’s getting dark, and the blue lights over the stairs have been lit. He stumbles to the washstand and grips the rim of the basin.

Noctians don’t, as a rule, warm their houses. Even though the wind turbines bring enough energy to power ten cities as big as Noctis, the citizens have a practical approach to it. They create personal pockets of warmth.

“Melvin.”

He closes his eyes and wills his hands to not shake. Then looks at Dandolo.

In the diffused light Dandolo, sitting on the edge of the mattress, glows, his skin like dark mountains and the plain shirt creamy like sand on their slopes and the heavy draperies a crimson and dark blue backdrop and...

Melvin reminds himself to breathe. He is overcome with the need to drop to his knees and give Dandolo all of himself. All his loyalty, his words, his blood, the electricity in his cells — everything.

Abundance owned him — but what he _wants_ is to give himself to Dandolo and his city. He wants it so badly it makes his whole body heavy. But to give himself because he’s broken and can’t survive if someone doesn’t have him… And to which does he give himself? The city, the Prince, Dandolo, _Paon_?

Dandolo gets up, and he looks away.

Dandolo can sense strong emotions, like anger or hostility, bad intentions. Can he read minds? They say Auroran technomancers can, but Melvin thinks it’s just training and dealing with people.

Dandolo deals with people every waking hour.

Dandolo’s steps are soft, barefoot, but Melvin is painfully aware of his approach. Fling him into the most crowded part of Noctis — and yet, out of all people, he will be aware of Dandolo’s presence somewhere else.

“You haven’t slept,” Dandolo says gently.

“No.”

“You should.”

“Later.”

It is the tone that undoes him every time: welcoming warmth, willingness to wait and to listen, and to help. He doesn’t deserve all that, he doesn’t _want_ to deserve that — he is a killer, a murderer, a weapon, an abomination.

“Melvin.” A hand touches his shoulder, warmth through the fabric of his shirt. Like a brand, almost, he _wishes_ it was hot like a brand and left a mark. Like the black one on Dandolo’s left shoulder.

“I want…” He falls silent, stricken by the words.

“Anything that is mine to give, I will give you.” Dandolo says it so close, but doesn’t crowd him, knows he doesn’t like that…

But Melvin wants. He doesn’t want to be given, he wants to be taken. He wants to not be asked, he wants to…

“I shall go,” he says, even though that’s the last thing he wants to do.

The hand falls from his shoulder, but he can still feel its lingering warmth — and mourns when it seeps away.

“Have I offended you, Master Melvin?”

He knows it’s the other way around, for the look of hurt in Dandolo’s eyes. Dandolo allows himself the vulnerability of caring — but then, he can afford it—

No, Melvin reminds himself. Dandolo is not a coddled functionary. There is blood on his hands, he killed for his city and for his pain, and he led people unto death, and it left scars deeper than those he bears on his flesh. Of the wind and the plains. Fury of Mars.

And Dandolo was a slave.

He never talks about that — Noctians do, it is never a shame. They speak tall tales about their Prince, _Paon_ , Dandolo, brother-merchant — but what Melvin listens to, fears to hear, is Dandolo’s silences.

Dandolo wanted, needed to not be a _thing_ anymore, and the One wished it so, and Dandolo took a life for it.

Melvin has seen the law banning slavery. He has seen the plaque it is etched upon, and the end of it states, clearly:

_As long as Paon Dandolo breathes, there will be no slaves in Noctis._

He asked Dandolo: what would be after he draws his last breath?

And Dandolo smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and said: when the time comes, I will walk out of the Red Gates and never return, and they will never have a proof that I’ve drawn the last breath.

“No, you haven’t, Prince. It is not that.”

 _It is_ , he wants to say, _that I love you and I’m selfish._

And he is scared.

“I am not your Prince.”

And Dandolo isn’t.

But Melvin wants him to be — and doesn’t want it all the same. Let the city have the Prince, let the One have the Marked — just let Melvin have this. One. _Person_! At least once in his life. Something entirely his, _someone_ only his and his alone. To throw his whole life to this man’s feet — but to have him all to himself.

He’s dizzy with all these thoughts. Is it always like this for Sean? For Roy? This agony of uncertainty, of clashing desires, duty, guilt — it almost makes him with for the clarity of wa—

No. There was no clarity in war. There were only lies and death and pain without end, even when it turned into numbness. Touch it — and it flares up again.

He will never kill, never, never, _never_ again (unless they come for his family, for Dandolo, for his city — he will, he will, he _will_ ).

He looks away — because Dandolo is still waiting. Would he wait a day more, a week, a year, a decade? He wants to say, _No, Dandolo wouldn’t,_ — but he knows, in his heart of hearts, that Dandolo would. He is of the plains, of the sand, and sand is patient and eternal.

“I shall go. Do try to have a few hours of sleep, please.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bleary after barely a couple of hours of sleep, hiding his face in the shadow of a hood, Melvin moves with a crowd to the Palace.

This must be what Fran talked about.

He tries to guess what it will be. The people seem merry, but it is not the grandiosity of the Carnival, and it can’t be just the Council meeting, can’t be the Prince’s speech, because Dandolo would have told him.

Would he?

He tries to keep anonymous — and it is easy in the crowd, and yet some people greet him with a nod or a soft _“corvo”_. Noctis always knows.

The crowd is moving up the ramps to the Docks, not up the Palatial stairs, and Melvin has a moment of doubt that they all would fit — when he sees that the city level of the Docks is cleared. And realizes just how _huge_ the Docks are. They always have a few fleets stationed, loads of cargo being registered, transferred, flocks of ostriches being clicked into moving around the proud ‘sails, a couple or two of rovers like bulky heavies of their much faster besailed siblings…

Dandolo — no, the Prince — is standing on the platform of the cargo elevator. The crowd jostles with jokes and taunts, but never pressing so much that there is no air.

Melvin catches snippets of a discussion.

“Надеюсь, Фран не участвует.”

“Eh, futile hope! They certainly will be, if there are any ostriches — and there are _always_ ostriches.”

“La Troupe est hors de la ville.”

“Это еще ничего не значит. Может, они специально выехали, чтобы заранее подготовиться.”

“Hmm… You think Corvo will join in? I’d like him to. Been too long since we’ve had a technomancer for this.”

“Ce serait génial. _Nameless_ me manque.”

While he tries to keep up, Noctian using their strange way of speaking their native languages and understanding each other, he nearly misses that they are talking about _him_.

His tunic becomes very hot.

He tries to move away from the discussion and stares resolutely straight ahead. At Dandolo.

The Prince raises his hands with a smile, and the crowd goes quiet.

“All right, my friends. I know it’s been a while, so all the more reasons to not put it off any longer. There will be three main groups—”

A mix of groans and cheers.

“—with several teams in each. The lists are sent out already, and if you are unsure, do consult with the guards. As usual, you cannot ask for the list of members of groups except for yours.”

“Will Frances take part?”

Melvin recognizes the voice as the one of those he caught discussing him.

“You bet I will!” comes Frances’s reply, and he can perfectly picture their grin.

He doesn’t know whether it would be more dangerous for the questioning person to end up in the same group as Fran, or in a different one. The excitement of the crowd is energizing Melvin, too, even though he still has no idea what this is all about.

“This time,” Dandolo continues after a chuckle, “we have a few new rules. The heads of the groups will explain them to you. New vehicles, too. As always, the team picks their own leader, or leaders. The routes are on encrypted datapads.” He claps his hands. “Good hunting and good wind to you all!”

Another wave of cheers fills Melvin to the brim, even though he tries…

He feels Dandolo’s gaze right on himself, and makes a few steps towards him as the crowd disperses with even more noise than before.

Dandolo hops off the elevator platform and goes to the side, under one of the tents that usually houses the cargo.

“You probably have questions,” Dandolo says gently, perching on a counter. Here, he is Dandolo, not the Prince of mere moments ago. Up close, he looks tired, the line of his mouth thin. Melvin assumes he hasn’t slept at night again.

“So many,” Melvin agrees. It is not his place to ask about Dandolo’s health, or to admonish him for his strange sleeping schedule that doesn’t match the city’s rhythms. “Fran told me yesterday that something was to happen, but I still don’t know what it is. Is it some sports game?”

Dandolo smiles. “In a way, though it is more of a training for a serious cause. Frances calls it the NPD.”

Melvin tries to decipher it. “Noctian…”

“Pirate Drill.” Dandolo smiles again, more to himself — or to Fran’s nicknaming it. “Raiders rarely touch big caravans, but I’d rather have those who go with caravans regularly know what to do, how to work when various kinds of raiders attack.”

Especially now, when the plains are shifting, when the deluge of fanatics and the desperate is enormous.

Fuck.

“Do you take part?” he asks quietly. He wants… It is mere interest, nothing more. He knows how much Dandolo loves the plains.

Dandolo shifts, waves. “Since it is _my_ enterprise… And I’ve been holed up for too long.”

 _And the storms were calling to you all throughout the previous season_ , Melvin thinks. He would wake at odd hours, not being able to tell the time because the storm brings the long night, and he would find Dandolo on the roof of the Palace, a barely visible silhouette. Listening, listening to the wind. _Not_ looking at the Red Gates, not even once.

“You don’t have to participate in it,” Dandolo says quickly. “It is for…”

“For sworn merchants?”

Dandolo nods.

Not for him.

But… “ _May_ I participate?”

Dandolo looks away, then back at him. “Yes. If you’d like. A couple of days out on the plains, maybe a week. Whatever team you choose, they would be—”

“I want yours. I mean.” Where is Sean to kick him? “I want on your team. If you don’t mind.”

The lines of exhaustion smooth out on Dandolo’s face. “On mine? Though the leader hasn’t been picked… Of course, _corvo_. Of course. Join me.”

***

They meet with the rest of the team in Orion’s workshop — Melvin supposes that it’s because _nobody_ would go to the chief mechanic’s workshop without a reason. Though it is the time for the day shift of the mechanics, Cassiopea, Orion’s hound, greets them, indicating that the caves are empty save for their usually nightly occupant. Orion himself is doing something at the work station by the distant wall. The hound tickles Melvin’s hand with her antennae, and then trots for Dandolo for scritches and, when Orion turns back to whatever contraption he’s been working on, for a piece of dry fungus.

Melvin expected the team to frown at his joining them, but they don’t look at all surprised. They nod and utter “ _corvo_ ” and he feels elated, in a strange way. Aya, one of the _furiosi_ and wife of Dandolo’s pilot friend, Sofia, offers him a reassuring smile. Dandolo brushes his shoulder when he goes to a rock with a light hanged over it.

With Melvin, they are a group of thirteen.

Dandolo leans on the rock. “Let’s vote for the leader, shall we?”

“Come on, Dandolo,” one of the group groans. They sound oddly familiar. A guard, maybe? “You are one of the best pilots and caravaners in the whole city, maybe ever—”

“Which means _nothing_ , precisely,” another voice cuts them off.

Beyond the circle of light, stands a big… Melvin certainly doesn’t know them. Their arms are crossed on their chest, their feet planted wide, and Melvin moves slightly closer to Dandolo.

Dandolo doesn’t even tense up. “ _Nibbio_ is right. My past deeds shouldn’t get in the way of this exercise. Besides, my duties often prevent me from going out with caravans.”

“And he’s a _pilot_ ,” _Nibbio_ (Melvin assumes it’s their merchant name) notes, looking pointedly at Dandolo, “which means jackshit if we are an ostrich team.”

An ostrich team. Melvin wonders whether asking to join was a wise decision. He’s _bad_ with ostriches.

Aya shoulders past the confrontational merchant to Dandolo and picks a datapad from the rock. “If you want to be difficult, we can just look at our scenario before we decide on the team leader.”

 _Nibbio_ huffs, but doesn’t disagree.

Aya goes round picking what Melvin assumes sigils to unlock the datapad. It seems the whole thing has been in the works for, what, the whole of the storm season? And he has been so blind that he hasn’t noticed…

Blinded by Dandolo’s closeness.

Aya holds the datapad out to him.

“I don’t have a sigil, Mistress Aya,” he says softly.

She raises a brow. “Are you certain? All right.” She turns the datapad the right side to herself, and a small chime sounds. “Hm. We are… a ‘sails team, and prey.” Her expression turns sour. “Oh joy. I hope we aren’t against Fran, that would be _brutal_.”

 _Nibbio_ doesn’t turn their gaze away from Dandolo, and Melvin keeps watching them, listening to Aya only half-eared.

“Our route is across Solis to Lampland and then— Who the fuck designed that?! The ride is smooth, but winds are _insane_! Does anyone even know the landscape?”

Melvin glances at her. She looks up in alarm, turns to the team. Many shake their heads.

Dandolo is relaxed — visibly. “I know. Been there. What’s the destination after Lampland?”

“Ogygis. _Paon_ , this is dangerous. Even with the storm season past… Well, you know it yourself. Winds never cease there.”

“I know,” Dandolo says quietly.

 _Nibbio_ moves to him. “This is _your_ doing! You decided to show that you are still a pilot, even seasons after not going out, not leading a caravan!”

“Routes are designed by any willing members of the Council,” Dandolo says. His voice is neutral, but there is ice forming on the edges of the words. “And they are assigned randomly to the teams.”

“Yeah, as though you—”

Melvin steps between them. “Dandolo has said his piece. Are you accusing him of lying?” If he knows anything about Noctians, it’s that dishonesty is a heavy accusation. Especially towards Dandolo, who is known as being always truthful.

(Melvin does know how he lied to protect his city and to protect Zach.)

“And you! You are not even sworn in!”

The merchant’s attention turns to him. Good. “Does it say anywhere that I cannot participate?”

“You weren’t in the lists!”

“There _is_ a rule, _Nibbio_ ,” Aya says, “that says a team can recruit help from the outside. So shut the fuck up and don’t ruin everything before it has begun. We need to choose our leader. Candidates?”

One of the other merchants says, “Dandolo.” And then others say the same name, including Aya.

Except for _Nibbio_.

“ _Fradelo_ ,” Dandolo says. “I give you my word this is a coincidence. But as Aya put it, the route is difficult. We have,” he takes the datapad from Aya and glances at it, “substantial ‘cargo’ and we’d need at least three heavy ‘sails. That would help with battling the wind — but it wouldn’t be easy. I know the terrain and I’m a sandsi—”

“They are a lie.”

Dandolo doesn’t move a brow. “Regardless. I can get us through.”

“And tell us, _when_ did you actually travel that route?”

“During the burnings, you _sacco di_ —”

“ _Sister_.” Dandolo’s voice isn’t loud — but the word is sharp like a gust of wind. Aya falls silent.

 _Nibbio_ seem to be alarmed by the information about burnings.

Fury of Mars.

“It’s been seasons,” they murmur. They are studying the rock floor under their sandals.

“I’ve perfect memory,” Dandolo says, and it is now his normal voice again. “And I track the quakes. I promise I won’t drive us into a ravine.”

They look up at Dandolo. Then away, scraping their sandal against the floor. “If you do, it will be on your head, Dandolo.”

Dandolo inclines said head. “So it will. Thank you, _Nibbio_.” He claps his hands. “All right, we are riding out in,” he glances at the datapad again, “three hours before the sunrise. Gather your equipment. Don’t forget to bring insulating clothes and blankets: wind is bad. Check goggles, and take enough rebreathers. Grade Three will suffice. Assemble at the Golden Gate Docks at midnight.”

“Whose ‘sails are we taking?”

“Mine. Five heavy syms, three light asyms.”

“Your assets belong to the city,” _Nibbio_ notes, “while you are the Prince.”

“They always belong to the city. But right now, I’m just _Paon_ ,” Dandolo replies, then calls to others, “Kotaro, Yinbe, provision and water is on you.”

“This time there should be plenty of moles, I suggest we take harpoons.”

“Do so. Aya—”

Melvin tunes out the orders. He can barely keep up, and after all, they are the experts, not him. He wonders whether he has a place in the trip. He doesn’t want to be a burden.

When the rest of the team move away, he reaches for Dandolo. “What should I do? Should I go?”

Dandolo’s eyes are soft. “There is a place for everyone in a caravan. My task is to help you find it.” He takes Melvin’s hand and squeezes. “You should get a few hours of sleep before midnight. I’ll wake you up, don’t worry.”

“I’ve never…” It is obvious, of course, that he’s never ridden a sandsail. “I don’t want to be a cargo.”

“You won’t be.” Dandolo brings Melvin’s hand to his lips, and Melvin’s heart skips a beat when the Prince presses a kiss to his knuckles. He goes to the elevator, leaving Melvin dazed.

He steps after Dandolo.

“ _Corvo_! Stay a bit.”

Cassiopea comes close with her master, and Melvin bends down to scratch the seams between her plates.

Orion stands before him, heavily tattooed arms folded on his chest. Melvin feels properly assessed.

“So, you are the one,” the mechanic says at last.

“The one…”

“He’s chosen. The one who’s chosen him.”

Melvin looks away. Oh, that. “It is… uncertain.”

“If you think so.” Orion shrugs, then leans forward. How do Noctians put it? Pilots are of the wind and the plains — Orion here is of the earth. “You better look after him, technomancer.”

It sounds a lot like a threat. “I heard that you… don’t approve of him,” he says carefully.

“My personal preferences don’t blind me to the fact that Noctis thrives with him as our _Doge_.” Orion says it differently than others. “The city is everything to him, Prince or not — and it is so easy to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

Melvin thinks on Viktor Watcher. “It is. And it is easy to defend it by the right reason.”

“You understand it. Good. So, look after him.”

Melvin is sure there is an unspoken “ _or else_ ”. “I will, Master Orion.”

The mechanic frowns, taps his foot. “I’m not the only one who disapproves of him.”

He nods. “ _Nibbio_. What is… the nature of their conflict?”

“It is not my right to say. Just… Look after Dandolo. The people need him. Especially now.”

Melvin nods again. “I will.”

“ _Bene_.” Orion hesitates, then presses the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, touches Melvin’s chest with them, and only then steps away. “Go. You need rest.”

***

Melvin returns to the Palace via one of the side entrances that leads close to the balcony.

Orion is a notorious recluse, with few friends. He doesn’t approve of the Prince and he even voted against some of Dandolo’s offers to the Council.

But his blessing lingers, and so do Orion’s demands.

Melvin shakes his head, getting onto the balcony, looking for Dandolo, then goes to the alcove. “Dandolo, what should I wear to the trip?”

“Depends. How good is the insulation of your bodyglove? …Melvin?”

He swallows and forces himself to look away from the sliver of skin he glimpses when Dandolo’s undershirt rides up as he pulls off his tunic.

He coughs. “It’s good. Insulation, I mean.”

“You won’t get cold?”

“Can bear the nights.”

“You wouldn’t have to deal with them alone anyway…”

He coughs again, hiding a laugh. “My Prince!”

Dandolo laughs, too, smoothing his undershirt. “But it is true, Melvin. I’d have you in my ‘sail night and day…”

“Oh Shadow!”

They laugh until they run out of breath, Melvin caught in Dandolo’s arms — but soon, doubts grip him again. “You don’t object to my presence? It sounded dangerous.”

“Every caravan trip is dangerous,” Dandolo says quietly, his hand on Melvin’s hip. “I want… to share it with you. That part of my life.”

“I’m...” To say that he’s flattered feels like it would cheapen it somehow. And what if he does become a burden? Melvin extracts himself from Dandolo’s hold. “Thank you. I can wear the bodyglove, a tunic and pants, then?”

Dandolo doesn’t reply immediately, looking at him. “Yes. That would be optimal. And boots if you feel more comfortable in them.”

Melvin chews on his lip. “Later… If we are supposed to sleep… May I do it here? Of course, it is only logical, you wouldn’t have to look for me, and…”

“Yes. Logical. Certainly.” Dandolo turns away, picking a datapad, and Melvin’s heart sinks. He did something wrong again.

“I’ll get my things, then.”

When he returns to the balcony, Dandolo is there with the maps and the datapad. He asks Dandolo whether he’d like to sleep, but Dandolo says he has too much to do.

Melvin thinks he wouldn’t be able to sleep, closing the draperies over the bed, listening to the muffled voices of whoever has come to Dandolo again. And lets Dandolo’s voice lull him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orion and Cass are Salmaka's OCs =*


	3. Chapter 3

Melvin wakes up after his nap thirsty, and still alone, with no trace of Dandolo — except for a neat pile of gear waiting by him: a headscarf, goggles, and a mask. He worries he might have overslept, but the guards tell him he hasn’t. So he leaves to the Docks, stumbling in the relative darkness of the city, and spots what he hopes are Dandolo’s sandsails: five heavily loaded ones and three asymmetrical light ones.

A few merchants greet him from the ’sails. Still no Dandolo.

To kill time he tries to fix the headscarf, and he’s found it’s not as easy as he thought.

“You should do it differently. I could help, if you want.”

He looks at the merchant. Their headscarf, dyed blue and purple, is perfect, the lower part resting on their neck. There are full moons glinting, woven in the headscarf.

He nods. “I would be very obliged.”

“You are a part of the caravan. We work together.”

The merchant slings the headscarf about his head quickly. “I’ll show you various ways to work with it on a stop, if you want”

“Thank you. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

They show him how to fix the edges over the mask and lean back. “I know who you are. Everyone knows Melvin, Dandolo’s dear friend.”

He drops his gaze, stroking the mask. “I’m…”

“Now, now, I’m just teasing. My names are Jaya and _Procellaria_ , usually I go with my caravans between mines.”

“And you are…” He doesn’t know how to ask the question, whether it would be appropriate.

They smile again. “On half-moon days, I’m a woman and go by ‘she’. On full-moon days, I’m not and go by ‘ey’.”

Melvin glances at eir headscarf, then smiles, too. “These are beautiful moons, Jaya.”

“Flatterer. Don’t let Dandolo influence you.”

As though summoned by eir words, Dandolo strides to the sandsails. Instead of the blue or purple garments he wears on the balcony, his tunic is the color of canyon sand, the headscarf already in place. His gaze stops momentarily on Melvin and a smile flicks, just for Melvin. And the team gathers round, drawn to him.

“Everyone ready? Good. Let us get going, then.”

Dandolo takes him to one of the heavier symsails, and shows him how to secure himself in the seat behind the pilot’s. The cockpit is a small space — but not stiflingly confined: all parts of plating can be removed, leaving the gondola open to the elements. The outside and inside is painted with Noctian patterns: lines folding into the ever-watchful Ocio.

It smells of oranges.

Dandolo gets in the pilot seat. There is a check on the radio (Melvin hastens to fix his earpiece), and banter with the Docks. The elevator brings them up.

There is a lurch — and then they roll, faster and faster, though in the darkness Melvin can’t tell just how fast.

“ _Paon_ flies again!” rises a cry.

“Oh yes, he does,” Dandolo chuckles, and cheers answer him.

Melvin leans back as wind rushes past, grins, looking up at the spilled salt of the stars.

He feels free but strangely grounded at the same time.

For those few hours, all his worries fade, swallowed by darkness.

“ _Paon_ , sing the sunrise.”

Dandolo hums. It sounds so close and intimate, right in Melvin’s ear. “I’d wish for your drums, _Procellaria_ , but we have what we have.” And he sings.

_Up in the morning, up in the evening…_

The sun rises, turning the sails into precious wings like those of beetles, blazing red with glimmering threads woven into them — and Dandolo’s voice sings glory and defiance.

***

When the day rolls closer to mid, others take over singing. They sing in Low and High Abundancean, and Melvin assumes it is for his sake. Everyone is supposed to participate, either in the refrains or in the call and response types of songs. Some of them are so bawdy his cheeks burn, others are so hilarious he has a hard time breathing in between bouts of laughter.

He understands now why songs, music are so ubiquitous in Noctis, why all Noctians sing: it is a part of the caravan life. At some point the wind, the roll of the sandsail, the barely changing landscape lull the pilots into a sort of trance — and that means danger, death. Losing one ’sail might mean losing the whole caravan. They are co-dependent and look after each other. Singing helps to focus.

He thinks that coming to this trip is one of the best ideas he’s had. He might learn to understand Noctis better.

He teaches them soldiers’ songs, with lyrics as explicit as the plots are ridiculous. They catch them fast, weaving his contribution into their repertoire.

When the heat becomes too much, they stop in the shadow of a crater, its walls smoothed by winds. The caravan is merry, and Melvin doesn’t feel useless: Aya shows him how to turn sails into tent covers, and then he finds lichen he remembers from his deployments, adding it to the simple stew they are cooking.

He tries not to get too distracted by the sight of Dandolo pulling, all on his own, a fully loaded heavy sandsail into the shadow, his outer tunic discarded, leaving the vest and undershirt. Muscles bulging.

“You don’t have to hide, Melvin,” Kotaro notes. Melvin is helping with the stew, slicing the lichen.

He looks away quickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She snickers. “You do know. Both of you are consenting adults, so there’s no reason to hide.”

“Don’t you worry? That I might…” he chucks inedible bits away. “Curry favor?”

“What, like, political favor? The Council won’t let you, and anyway the Prince doesn’t have that much power. We’d be glad if you curried _personal_ favor.”

He hopes the shadow hides the color on his cheeks and neck. “Why do I feel like the whole city knows?”

“Because the whole city knows.”

He stops briefly. Then cuts the stems. “It is not so easy,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he feels out of place. Why do they have to get involved? It is between him and Dandolo. Whatever it is.

“He’s the Prince, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be with him. I don’t know how it goes in Abundance—”

“No. You don’t know.” He lowers the knife. It comes out harsh, and he looks up, worried he might have offended her.

Kotaro smiles. “I apologize. It was inappropriate of me to… assume, especially about such personal things.”

He rolls his shoulders. “I apologize for snapping. I know the city loves Dandolo, and I…” He tears the rest of the lichen apart. “We are working on it.”

“That’s all we can wish for.”

“I’m sorry I don’t know everything about Noctis.”

She snorts. “Not all _Noctians_ know everything. We have the Witnesses for that.”

“But Dandolo knows?”

She smiles. “Dandolo knows. Noctis is his heart. Of the wind…”

“And the plains,” he finishes, glancing at Dandolo again: he is folding a sail.

“He is like caravaners of the old. If Noctis had never chosen him as the _Doxe_ , we would have been fools.”

He watches Dandolo making another tent out of the sails — and then Dandolo looks up, right at him.

Melvin turns his gaze down, grips the small cutting knife. There is no reason to—

There is loud cursing. Melvin jumps to his feet, gripping empty air instead of his staff.

“ _Merde_ ,” Kotaro mutters.

“I checked them, and the Dock guards signed it!” That’s Aya, gesturing wildly at _Nibbio_.

“Shall I return to Noctis immediately to look through the documents?” He leans to her, arms on his chest.

“What is happening?” Dandolo’s voice sweeps over the camp, and he strides to them, drawing attention to himself. It is him, the _Doxe_. He stops right between them. “Explain.”

“ _Paon_ , this f—”

“Language.”

“This _man_ , he claims I didn’t check the sails properly!”

 _Nibbio_ doesn’t change his pose, but now his gaze is on Dandolo. “Maybe it was not your fault. It’s just that Dandolo’s sandsails haven’t been used in a long time.”

“They have been used every season,” Dandolo replies, all calm. “And they go through regular checks. State your claim.”

 _Nibbio_ shrugs — but Melvin can feel tension in his feigned nonchalance. “The sails must be damaged. They are not charging up properly.”

Dandolo moves to the _waka_ , and leans over the pilot seat, then pulls back. “Your cells are fully charged.”

“They don’t charge evenly. And you know well, Dandolo, how much of a difference such a detail might make.”

Dandolo nods. “I do know that. But we have to take the risk, and then run the full diagnostics when we return home…”

Melvin curls his fingers in a fist. “We don’t have to wait. I can check integrity of the solar threads,” he says, looking at Dandolo alone. “We do it with our uniform.”

Dandolo nods without a moment of hesitation. “Do so, please, Master Melvin.”

The formality doesn’t escape Melvin’s notice. He moves to vessel, gets the sail and touches the edge. The current flows evenly without disturbances. Melvin steps down. “There is no damage to the solar threads.”

Dandolo nods. “Thank you, Master Melvin. Of course, _Nibbio_ , you are worried about this trip, so you must have been… overly cautious. Thank you for being so vigilant.”

 _Nibbio_ doesn’t look happy, but stays silent.

***

“Finally you can sleep properly in alignment with your inner clock, but you refuse?” Melvin sits down on the warm boulder by Dandolo’s side and wraps a space blanket over Dandolo’s shoulders.

“It is a tradition, a superstition of sorts that the first ever watch is the caravan leader’s.”

Melvin stiffens. “Should I leave?”

Dandolo smiles. “No. I don’t have to do it in solitude.”

Melvin holds out a rattling cloth bag and his heart flutters at the smile on Dandolo’s face.

“You’ve brought oranges?”

“I thought you wouldn’t, they are non-essential, and I carry less gear than others, so…”

“Thank you. And,” Dandolo says, digging into the bag, “I apologize for all this. I did hope to bring you out one day, show you the plains and the caravan life, but with this nonsense…” He sends an orange into his mouth.

“I was deployed for many years, I’ve seen the plains.” Dandolo’s face falls, and Melvin adds, “But not like this. Thank you for taking me here.” He leans on Dandolo’s shoulder. They hold the first vigil together.

***

They get some sleep when others step to take over the watch, and when he heat fades, they pack the camp and move out again — and Melvin understands everyone’s concern: winds are whipping at the sails so viciously he feels that they should be swept away. But they are not, Dandolo’s cryptic instructions guiding them, and Melvin’s fear abates, giving way to astonishment and respect for the skills of the pilots. And for Dandolo’s feeling of the wind. The whole caravan listens to Dandolo — not because he’s good at what he’s doing. One of the best.

Some things start to make sense.

The evening comes quietly. They stop at a cave, and at least they don’t need tents, but everyone takes out blankets. Some settle in their gondolas, some prefer to stretch their legs out of the confines of their vessels — even though the outside is rather rocky.

Dandolo takes the first watch again, after a dinner of mole steak with herbs, and Melvin stays with him.

Aya, walking past, shakes her head. “You are restless and sleep spirits know how bad in the city, _Paon_ , and now that you are out, your sleeping is wrong again.”

Dandolo throws a stone chip at her, and she ducks, laughing. And Melvin wonders. Wonders about the one belonging to the plains and the people of his city; to Mars, to Labyrinth, to Noctis. A merchant, a caravaner, a Prince.

Melvin always defined himself as a soldier, and, on his worst days, a living weapon. He was raised in the Source, told from the start he belonged to Abundance, mind and body (Abundance never assumed he had a heart). They used to fight over definitions with Sean, because for all of the bitterness later in life, when Abundance finally dug her claws into Sean, he always defined them as people (it didn’t matter what roles were imposed on them; under all that, they were human beings). Sean defined them like that out of love, when he could feel it; out of spite, when he couldn’t.

Sean once said: if we define ourselves the same way as they define us, then we are indeed only tools and deserve what we get.

During his fights with Dandolo, Melvin defined himself as a soldier out of pride.

Before coming to Noctis, Melvin placed a single definition upon the legendary, mythical city: freedom. It was easy to couple freedom with Noctis: he knew he would never reach either (because neither existed, not for him).

The reality of Noctis has turned out to be so much _more_. It is the crossroads of the world — even though most of the world isn’t aware of its existence. Various views, opinions, languages, songs, scents, problems, dances, ideas, causes — all mix, clash, twine here, and they are transformed though that. It is a wonder, this city, and not only a single thing. Abundance forces you to be defined by your usefulness: a Worker, a Watcher, a Goodsman, a Mancer. Noctis says: paths are open — choose. You can get anywhere on Mars from here. Abundance shapes you with her hammers into whatever form she needs — Noctis sees you, acknowledges you, witnesses you, with your flaws and weaknesses, with all your strengths, your facets, it finds a place for you and _in_ you like Noctis has found a place in the great canyons. Noctis gives you a choice of names. You may pick one — or have many. Noctis will remember them all and forget those that do not define you anymore.

“ _Corvo_? What are you thinking about?”

He looks at Dandolo as though with new eyes. The triangles on Dandolo’s left ear — the marks of pride and humility and passion of the one who went into the heart of the Labyrinth and returned. The triangles under his left eye — the marks of his service to the city as the Prince. The slant of his brows, the lines of worry, the silver threads highlighting his hair the color of Martian roads, the color of the Labyrinth’s walls.

Melvin doesn’t look away. He doesn’t want to. “I’m thinking about your city.”

Dandolo smiles. It is a soft smile, the one that makes his eyes shine. “It can be yours if you let it.”

Melvin thinks of gifts: the gift of a name, a _bird_ name; the gift of songs and dances during the Carnival, the gift of city lights; the gift of the spilled salt of stars, of winds and plains. The gift of patience. Of _choice_.

“This is how you conquer the world, Noctian,” Melvin says. “By opening your city to everyone.”

Dandolo drops his gaze — and Melvin suddenly notices that the green eyes are underlined with black. Then they look up at him again, warm and close. “I don’t need to conquer the world, Melvin. It is already mine: I belong to it.”

With his new revelations and everything he has learned so far about Noctis and Dandolo, Melvin knows to not take it as arrogance. “If Abundance had heard you, she would have shrieked in indignity.”

“Let her,” Dandolo says. “She doesn’t care for what she has.”

Is Dandolo talking about him? Melvin isn’t sure. The soldier in Melvin understands it differently — but if there is a war for him to fight still, it is not Abundance’s war anymore. He fights for his family: for his fathers, his little brother, for Zach and his merry band. He’s not only a soldier: with Sean’s return he felt full-on that he is a brother, and, shrugging off the uncertainty and fear of a refugee, he wonders… What else he can be.

He reaches for Dandolo’s hand. A blanket is wrapped around their shoulders, and they stay close to not let it slip.

***

In the morning, Melvin untangles himself from Dandolo’s heavy and warm embrace and gets himself out of the gondola to check a few more sails, and when Kotaro struggles with the stove, he kickstarts it with a spark. It feels strange to use his technomancy in such small ways — ways that don’t serve the purpose of destruction (he thinks about Dandolo’s delight at his “sparkly” fingers, every single time they touch).

Dandolo emerges from the vessel, stretching luxuriously, the undershirt not concealing his size like his usual clothes do, and riding up on his stomach.

Melvin catches Dandolo’s eye. Dandolo smirks, and Melvin looks away, face heating up.

Dandolo gets into the process of packing up right away, grabbing cold meat on the way past the improvised kitchen, helping others, asking and answering questions. _Nibbio_ calls for Dandolo with some consideration for their route, and it seems the interpersonal crisis is averted for now.

Melvin notices the patterns. The caravan leader is not here to control, they don’t _own_ the caravan. They are chosen for their ability to see the various skills in people, to make sure everyone finds a place. Nobody is useless — because the leader makes an effort to recognize that and to make it so.

Noctis, Melvin realizes, is a caravan — just on a much bigger scale. The Prince is not the owner — and if they start thinking that they _are_ , there is the whole Council — effectively, the whole of Noctis — to stop them. The Prince leads them through storms, feeling the slightest change of wind, recognizing those who have expertise in certain areas and making sure that expertize is put to use so that the whole caravan survives. But the skills are not only the externalities, and value is not only in “usefulness”: nobody is expendable or useless because the caravan _is_ the people. It is not the vehicles, not the houses, not the goods — it is the pilots, the hunters, the merchants, the songsingers who keep the pilots awake and storytellers who carry the lore of the plains and the stars; it is a brilliant idea and a kind voice, it is the recognition that you matter just because you _exist_. Without you, the world is smaller and quieter.

They are on the move again, and the winds sing, and Melvin sings to them in reply.

Melvin wonders whether they would meet any ‘enemies’ at all. But the trip is good enough, at least for him.

Another midday stop, he feels the change.

The chaos of the stop is the same, and it seems that nobody else notices it — but there is a wariness in Dandolo, the way he doesn’t reply right away when addressed. Listening to something distant.

“Something is wrong,” Jaya says, startling Melvin out of his watch of Dandolo.

Dandolo is standing by the edge of the shadow that the hillock they have stopped near is casting, looking outside, the line of his shoulders handsome but tense. He’s stroking a small rock in his hand.

Melvin looks at em. “Do you believe in his… abilities?”

Ey smiles. “You mean, in his as a sandsinger.”

He lowers his gaze. “I apologize for my ignorance, and I mean no offense.”

“There is no offense in not knowing, only in not wanting to know. And one doesn’t need to believe in it — because it is true and real. Whether you place additional meaning to it is up to you. I am a caravaner: I know to trust a pilot’s instincts. I know to trust a sandsinger’s instincts, too, and Dandolo’s experience. He is beloved by Mars.” Ey smiles again when Melvin looks up. “You trust him, too.”

“I do,” he says simply. It is so easy to say, to a nearly complete stranger — but the strangeness is an illusion here: Noctis knows him — and Noctis is the people, not the walls.

“As he trusts you.”

“He is very… perceptive,” Melvin murmurs, his face heating up suddenly.

“Most of the time, yes.”

He puzzles at eir meaning — but then the atmosphere changes, and Dandolo shouts, “Ambush!”

Melvin throws himself to Dandolo — who’s already dropped into a crouch, two knives in his hands.

A clay-covered figure in rags is rushing to Dandolo, a rusty saw in hand, and Melvin is too slow, too slow…

It is certainly not part of the exercise: Melvin doubts Dandolo would slash at the feet of someone he knows.

Melvin’s musings are interrupted by another figure moving to him. Melvin sends them onto the ground with a punch to the ribs, the technomantic gloves providing extra weight, and the ribs give. The body grunts — but starts scrambling to its feet immediately, snarling, feral, and Melvin catches a gaze that is not human at all. He sends a sharp charge through their heart. They stop moving.

There’s no time to get to the ’sail for his gun and staff; one thought pulses in his mind: he has to be with Dandolo, to protect him. He charges his fist and sends another attacker onto the ground, and finally he is at Dandolo’s side, dropping into the sand with him.

“Are these part of the drill?” he asks calmly, sweeping feet from under another attacker as Dandolo thrusts a knife under their ribs. Blood spills onto the sand.

“No.” Dandolo springs up and drives his second knife into the abdomen of another at the same motion, spins around, throwing a smaller blade somewhere that elicits a howl.

“Down, peacock!” an unfamiliar voice commands, and Melvin pulls Dandolo back into the sand and throws himself over him.

Shots slice through the air.

Everything goes silent.

“How are you, _Paon_?” that same commanding voice rumbles over them.

Melvin rolls away from Dandolo (so heated and broad under him), but not far.

Over them stands a stocky figure, the face mostly a braided beard, clothes a patchwork dress of someone who’s used to life on the move. Their rifle is dulled, but well-kept. They shoulder the rifle and reach out to Dandolo. Dandolo clasps their forearm and pulls himself up.

“Well met, Mikhail. How are you here? And thank you for your help.”

“Save your thanks for now. I am sorry.”

Dandolo frowns. “For what?”

Mikhail looks at the caravan. At _Nibbio_.

 _Nibbio_ is staring at Dandolo — and then he runs.

Dandolo leaps to him and kicks under _Nibbio’s_ knees, knocking him into the sand. Nibbio doesn’t get up, because Dandolo is upon him, squeezing his neck. “You _dared_ ,” Dandolo roars, “to endanger your fellow caravaners? You dared to, over a petty squabble with me, you…” The rest is thick Noctian, Dandolo’s face twisted and dark with rage.

Melvin rushes to Dandolo, pulling him away from _Nibbio_ , pushing him bodily away even as Dandolo struggles. He knows he won’t hold Dandolo for long: the man is simply too strong, and augmented by rage.

So Melvin steps into Dandolo’s field of vision, takes Dandolo’s face in his hands (his skin burns). “Dandolo, please stop, you must stop.”

For a few moments Dandolo is looking right through him, green eyes so very dark — and then his face smooths out, his breathing starts slowing, and he closes his eyes and covers Melvin’s hands with his. “Oh, _corvo_ ,” he sighs. He sounds very tired.

Melvin brings their foreheads together. Dandolo is hot to the touch. “You held back. You are all right.”

“I’m not.”

They stand like this in the pocket of silence, breathing together — and Melvin realizes the winds stopped while Dandolo raged. Then Dandolo kisses Melvin’s palm, and presses his face into Melvin’s palms — then walks past him.

To _Nibbio_.

 _Nibbio_ has managed to sit up, but his hands skid in the sand as he sees Dandolo coming to him.

“I will not lay a hand on you,” Dandolo says in a voice that is the rumble of the ground during a quake. “And I will break any hand that dares to try. You will stand before the whole of Noctis and tell our city how you willingly, with malicious intent, put your fellow caravaners in danger during travel, setting up and guiding the caravan into an ambush. You will tell them how you rigged the system, especially the distribution of the routes. And I will be there, in the Council, not as the Prince, not as Dandolo, but as _Paon_ , your fellow merchant. They would probably want to hear how you misled your mother, but that is for the Council to decide.”

“ _Paon_ …” _Nibbio_ sobs, grabbing for Dandolo’s pants. “Brother… They will exile me.”

Dandolo stays silent and motionless — but Melvin feels…

“Now,” Dandolo says, “I want to know whether another team has been sent here.”

“What— I— My Prince…”

Dandolo closes his eyes, then opens them again, his expression imperceptibly softer, and he crouches. “ _Nibbio_. Focus, please. Was anyone else sent here? Is anyone else in danger? Besides these poor people,” he makes a sweeping gesture — meaning the fallen attackers, Melvin realizes.

 _Nibbio_ swallows. Swallows again, then looks down. “No, my Prince.”

“Good. Thank you.” He takes a flask from his belt and places it in the sand near _Nibbio’s_ hand. “Please drink. You are sweating too much, and it will lead to quick dehydration if you don’t drink.” He gets up, _Nibbio’s_ hand letting him go. “We shall put it to vote, as is the rule. For now, excuse me.” He walks away, to the hillock itself, and grips the rock and, so light, pulls himself up, and up, and up.

Melvin catches Aya’s look, and she nods Dandolo’s way.

It takes him some time, keeping in the shadow, to find a suitable footpath, and to not lose the sight of Dandolo. He feels woefully inadequate: he spent twenty years in military tours, in actual combat, in the mountains, deserts, canyons — but all of them were treated as hostile environments, something to be wary of or to conquer and change: to level out, to hollow, to blow up, to dig.

He feels as though, before coming to Noctis, before visiting the Mutant Valley (before meeting Dandolo) — he didn’t know Mars at all.

He uses his trek to come down from the high of the fight and the emotional explosion after — even though it is not enough. He would have gladly sparred with Dandolo now, to rid of the excess energy: he knows that both of them are brimming with it now.

He nearly walks past Dandolo, and jerks when a warm hand touches his.

Dandolo is sitting on a ledge in a natural niche — although a glance at the walls marked with parallel gouges make Melvin think of the presence of moles.

He sits down as Dandolo runs a hand over his face and then over his braids.

Melvin takes his own flask and hands it over.

“No, Melvin. You used your powers—”

“I am hydrated, and have too much charge, even. Drink.”

Dandolo accepts it. Melvin doesn’t look away from his exposed throat. Dandolo didn’t even get to wrap his scarf properly, and it lies loosely around his neck and on his shoulders.

“I lost control,” Dandolo says quietly.

“No. You kept it. You didn’t kill him. You didn’t put a hand on him.”

Dandolo doesn’t reply immediately, eyes skimming over the panorama. Melvin watches Dandolo.

“I felt a couple of them for a few hours, following us,” Dandolo says at last. “I thought they were moles. There are so many moles here.” He hangs his head.

Melvin squeezes Dandolo’s shoulder. It’s hard as a rock.

“They are driven to animalistic state, the raiders,” Dandolo says. “And it’s my fault.”

“How is it your fault?”

“I wasn’t there. I didn’t help them when they could be helped.”

Melvin clenches his teeth. Then says, trying to sound calm, “Dandolo, you can’t help everyone. And if you beat yourself for every woe of this world, you will burn out and then you certainly won’t be able to help a single soul.”

Dandolo covers his hand, his palm dry and big, with long fingers and callouses from sailing and from sand. “You are right, of course, but I am…”

“Personally responsible for the suffering of others. I know. Had Frances been here, they would have yelled at you.”

That earns him a huff, and Dandolo’s hand squeezing his. “And you are here reminding me of their yelling.”

“Master Orion, I’m certain, would have had many strong words to say to you, too. The caravan is fine, Dandolo.”

“But lives were lost.” He sighs.

Melvin decides he should let it go now. “Forgive me for undue curiosity, but why is _Nibbio_ so against you? Why would he do all that? And how did he manage to recruit those… people to ambush us?”

“He was a raider, too, years ago. Just like his mother.”

It takes him a moment. “Mikhail.”

“Yes. From Abundance. It was raiding or starving — or getting back to the ‘rehabilitation’ camps. _Nibbio_ was born in one of those camps.”

“And you met Mikhail during anti-raider hunts.”

Dandolo nods. He takes Melvin’s hand off his shoulder, holds it between his palms, rubbing his knuckles as though to calm himself. “I gave them money, offered a place in Noctis — but they wanted to wander free, so they kept roaming. After we burned down that camp Mikhail knew so well. Where Abundance sent kids.”

“Niesha,” Melvin says quietly.

“Niesha, my girl,” Dandolo confirms. “And many others. Mikhail brought their son to Noctis hoping he’d find a better life here, that he would settle down — but I…” He runs a hand over his braids again.

“Is it because you saved Niesha in time, but hadn’t saved _Nibbio_?”

Dandolo shrugs. “Relationships with people are never straightforward, even with hate and anger. Flying a ’sail in a storm is less complex, believe me. I’m an easy target. There were half a hundred people taking part in those raids and in the burning of the camp — but _Nibbio’s_ anger is aimed at me alone. Good, though: he’s not hurting anyone else, and I certainly can shoulder his anger, just like I do with anyone else’s. Not the first time, not the only time, not the last time.”

The weight of the whole city on him. Dandolo is very strong — but there are limits in everyone.

It is unlikely that Dandolo would give up that burden — so, Melvin shall help him carry it.

“He endangered others, however.”

“He did. It is my fault also. We should get back.”

He squeezes Dandolo’s hands, stopping him, and Dandolo lingers, looks at him — and Melvin kisses him lightly, and realizes he didn’t even understand how much he needed this kiss. A reassurance that Dandolo is alive, and Melvin himself is alive, and while he is, he can help Dandolo — by protecting him, by challenging him when needed. Dandolo tastes sweet, like oranges, and smells of sand, the oiled leather of the cockpit, and metal.

Dandolo pulls him closer to his chest, and Melvin returns the embrace, one hand on Dandolo’s back, another on the heavy braids.

Their kiss is a press of lips and sharing of breath.

“I’m sorry,” Dandolo murmurs when the kiss fades. “Are you all right?”

It is strange to be asked that. A year ago, nobody would have done that, though some might have wanted to. What use, when they knew he wasn’t, and knew it couldn’t be helped?

“I’m unharmed.” Dandolo’s hair smells of orange oil and heat and the salt of earth.

Melvin wants to say… He isn’t certain what. It’s that something wants to be conveyed, to be given voice. Just a few minutes ago, Melvin killed people. He feels like a killer — because he _is_ one — and the mental acrobatics of post-killing are a familiar routine. But what is unfamiliar is not feeling like a _weapon_. He killed to protect his. That is all.

“Shall we return now?” he asks quietly. He should feel exposed here, out in the plains, with the heat of the day slowly rising, with Mars all around him and no protection of the dome over his head. But instead he feels safe — as safe as he can be, with the man he sometimes fights and most of the time is in awe with — in his arms, vulnerable, warm, very human.

That something aches to be voiced, but Melvin doesn’t know what words to give it. He was never good with words.

“Yes. We shall.”

They go down to the caravan together, and Melvin watches as Dandolo shifts with each step, as fluid in changing the many aspects of himself as the wind and the sand he speaks to.

“Are you ready to vote?” Dandolo asks the caravan

“Yes,” one of the caravaners — Melvin has forgotten their name — nods. “We return to Noctis and bring the matter before the Bigger Council. Those in favor?”

A chorus of _aye’s_ sounds in the shadow — the chorus Dandolo doesn’t join. His gaze is on _Nibbio_ , now seated on an _ama_ of his ’sail, Dandolo’s flask clasped in his hand. Mikhail is by his side.

“You don’t vote in favor, _Paon_?” Jaya asks. Her brows are raised.

“No,” Dandolo replies simply.

 _Nibbio_ looks up.

“What do you propose? What _Nibbio_ did—”

“—is a breach of the caravan’s trust, I don’t deny it. But we must consider the consequences. If tried, the most likely verdict for him would be exile.”

“No shit,” someone grumbles.

“ _However_ ,” Dandolo says with an emphasis. “We must think of the events happening in our city. _Nibbio_ is formerly a refugee. It doesn’t matter that it’s been years and he’s a full merchant. Isolationists would seize this opportunity regardless.”

“And your throne would shake,” _Nibbio_ says, getting up and coming to them. “Since it was you who vouched for me.”

The bite of his words is undermined by Dandolo’s flask still clutched in his hands.

“Think whatever pleases you,” Dandolo says, calm as the sky at sunset. “That I’m considering personal gain, political power, that I’m doing it to spite you somehow… But I _won’t_ let a bunch of mole-headed idiots plunge my city into chaos and I _won’t_ let them close Noctis, and if I have to forgive you in order to do that, I will. I said my word.” He looks around, eyes blazing, voice not even of the Prince, but of the _onekorokī_. “Decide, _whānau_. I will defer to the vote, but these are the things you should consider.”

“He cannot be allowed on any caravan,” another merchant notes.

“No, he can’t be allowed on _my_ caravans,” Dandolo replies. “His grudge is personal. Isn’t it, _Nibbio_? You could have challenged me to a fight instead of all this. You wouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“I don’t have a death wish,” _Nibbio_ murmurs.

“Don’t you.” Dandolo looks right at him. “The custom allows us to leave you here, with them,” he nods at the bodies laid down close together. “How were you planning to survive the ambush? Were you hoping they would spare you while we all were slaughtered — and then what? You’d have taken the sandsails and gone rogue? Hoping nobody would know of your involvement? Or, what, you thought we would fight back, with your mother providing backup? Is that why you dragged Mikhail into this? And then we would return to Noctis and condemn me as a leader who takes unnecessary risks out of vanity? Noctis knows, and believe me, I’m more than capable of ruining my own reputation so thoroughly that you can’t even dream about it. If you had challenged me and then lost, your pride would have taken a blow, but nobody would have suspected foul play, since Noctis knows of your animosity towards me. Reckless, boy, reckless, selfish, thinking the whole world is out to get you — you are a fine prey to the isolationists. I wanted better for you. I am disappointed.”

If Dandolo had raised his hand on _Nibbio_ , Melvin doubts it would have had just as devastating an effect as those words have. _Nibbio’s_ eyes dart to the side, but it doesn’t hide the glistening in them.

“I gave you your name,” Dandolo says wearily. “If you hate me so much, if you hate your name so much, I shall take it away.”

“No! It’s mine!”

“Then _own_ it! You are not powerless anymore, your choices matter, they affect not only you but the whole city! If you don’t want to be in Noctis, then take one of the ’sails, and fly in the Shadow.”

“Are you kicking me out?”

Dandolo closes his eyes briefly, then looks at _Nibbio_ with a soft expression. “No. I only want you to choose, _for yourself_ , and take responsibility for your choices.”

“I… want to be a part of Noctis.” He looks at the caravaners. “What I did was unforgivable.”

“Whether to forgive or not is not for you to decide,” Aya says sternly.

 _Nibbio_ ducks his head. “Yes. You are right. What I did was simply… wrong. I didn’t think of all the implications of my actions.”

Melvin glances at Mikhail. There seems to be a smile hidden in their beard, but it is difficult to tell.

“I’ll take you into my caravans,” Jaya says. “You are a good pilot, and I can always find a spot for someone who can convince even a band of raiders to cooperate.” She looks at her kin. “Dandolo is right: the isolationists would turn it from personal into political, and innocent people would be caught in it and suffer.”

“By the Black-Eyed One’s sweet lips, Dandolo,” Aya murmurs, “if this is the labyrinth you have to traverse each day, I want to never be the Prince.”

Dandolo huffs.

“But,” Aya continues, “if Jaya wants to take _Nibbio_ in, I have no objections. I’d rather you work under supervision than roam the plains without it.” She glances at Mikhail. “Unless…”

Mikhail shrugs. “I’d rather he be a part of Noctis.”

“Those in favor of letting it stay personal?” Dandolo asks at last.

The chorus of _aye’s_ is complete now.

The boy — Melvin thinks that he can’t be much older than Niesha — casts his gaze down, fingers tightening on the flask.

“Is there some water left in the flask, _Nibbio_?”

 _Nibbio_ hastens to give it over. “A little, _Paon_.”

Dandolo accepts it and goes to the bodies then pours the water onto them to the last drop.

 _Nibbio_ frowns. “What… are you doing?”

“They were human; even if they weren’t treated like that in life, we owe it to ourselves to treat their bodies like that in death. They are travelers, too, my boy. And a Noctian, a _traveler’s_ funeral I’m giving them. There are plenty of moles here. They will return the bodies to the elements.” He steps away and goes to the sandsails — brushing Melvin’s hand on his way. “Pack up, people! We are going home.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Nibbio_ is quiet, but Melvin notices how gradually the caravan accepts him back. Dandolo talks to Mikhail and their group, and then Mikhail pulls their son into an embrace and leaves.

Melvin watches _Nibbio_ out of a soldier’s habit, out of the need to protect Dandolo — and wonders. Aya is right: politics are a labyrinth, all of it is a labyrinth — that’s why going to the front and staying there was always easier for Melvin. He doesn’t think he can ever understand all this, not to mention the fact that he didn’t even grow up in Noctis. And Dandolo has to consider all that — _can_ consider all that: all the various factions and individuals he knows, and projections of his own and someone else’s actions, and Noctis’s place in the bigger world, and to account for emergencies… To not let his personal feelings interfere and blind him — but to let his personal principles aid him. He is not the sole ruler of Noctis — but other things must be considered, too: his actions as _Paon_ , the merchant; his actions as Dandolo, the private individual; his actions, words as the _onekorokī_. To find the right words and gestures — and to stay sane in that turmoil.

In that storm.

And Dandolo is a very good pilot. He rides the storm, and he walked into the heart of Labyrinth during the height of storm season and returned.

What can Melvin offer to such a man?..

Melvin doesn’t sing when they fly back — and perhaps Dandolo picks on his mental state, because suddenly the singing of one of the pilots fades and Dandolo’s voice sounds in Melvin’s earpiece, “Is something wrong, _corvo_?”

“No. I’m… thinking.”

“What about?”

He doesn’t reply, considers what he can say. “What do you want from me?”

The channel falls silent for a long time. Even though Dandolo is in the pilot seat an arm’s length in front of Melvin, he feels as though they are an infinity apart.

“I want you to stop being scared.”

He frowns. “I’m not scared.”

“Then I apologize for my presumption.”

The channel is silent again, but Melvin hears it is not closed.

“It is difficult,” he says quietly, “to have a choice, Dandolo.”

“Yes, _corvo_. I know that well. It is scary.”

He looks away, at Mars flying past — the Mars he didn’t know before.

“Dandolo?”

“Yes, Melvin?”

“Freedom tastes bitter and sweet, but in some things I don’t want to have a choice.” His heart is hammering in his throat, and he barely manages to finish the sentence. Wondering whether Dandolo would understand — while Melvin himself doesn’t understand it fully.

It is not that thing that wants to be given voice to — but these words might open a path to it.

“I see,” comes the reply.

No more words follow, but the channel stays open, and Melvin dozes off to quiet sound of Dandolo’s commands to the caravan and to the faint — or imagined — sound of Dandolo’s breathing.

***

They make their way with only a brief stop to change pilots at night — except for Dandolo. Not because Melvin can’t pilot — (he makes a note to look into the matter, it’s a useful skill) — but because Dandolo is the one to lead them through the darkness and strong winds. Melvin worries, but he trusts the caravan’s decision.

When the stars spill out, he takes over singing.

They return to Noctis in the early morning, and Melvin is invigorated by the proximity of the city.

The ’sails stop on one of the concealed elevator platforms, and some pilots get out — but Dandolo doesn’t, and Melvin doesn’t want to either. He closes his eyes and feels: the moment, the scents of the sandsail — leather, oil, metal, and Dandolo’s faint oranges.

“Dandolo. I’d like to talk.”

“After I’ve sorted things with the caravan?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Wait for me on the balcony, then.”

He goes there right from the Docks through winding hidden passages, without getting lost, and nods to the guards.

He sits down on an ottoman, hands on his knees, and closes his eyes and listens — to Noctis and the Palace waking up with calls of the guards and winds singing in the canyon, to the wind chimes tinkling, to distant steps on metal and tiles, and creaking of wind blades, and faint flapping of flags, the hum of electricity, more a sensation on his skin than a sound.

He misses the vast plains, feels the need to explore them more — but he missed the city, too. Not Ophir, never Ophir — but Noctis, bustling and perplexing and warm.

“Would you like some tea? Or wine?”

He opens his eyes slowly to the sight of Dandolo walking across the balcony. His step is slow and the movement of his hands lacks the usual fluidity. Dandolo must be exhausted; Melvin realizes that Dandolo hasn’t slept since the night before the ambush. But he doesn’t insist on anything.

Not yet.

“You don’t drink.”

“The wine is for guests.”

“Am I a guest?”

Dandolo stops but doesn’t turn to him. “You are a friend.”

“I’d like something I can share with you. So, tea.” He gets up and goes over to help Dandolo.

He chooses the blend when Dandolo offers: between different flavors he picks the one infused with oranges, the dark brown of leaves speckled with bright zest.

Dandolo fills the teapot with leaves and water and then leans on outstretched arms on the small table with tea necessities. A braid falls over his shoulder, and Melvin aches to touch it.

“О чем задумался, ворон?”

“О тебе,” he says quietly. “И о себе.” He chooses cups from the range on the table — one green, unglazed clay, another formerly broken but stapled together with metal brackets. He puts them and the teapot on the tray, picks it up. “Come. You should sit down.”

They settle on an ottoman, the tray put down on another — and Melvin thinks on the first night they spent together — here, with tea and too many things said and understood wrong.

“Thank you again,” Melvin says, filling Dandolo’s cup, “for taking me to the trip, even with all its unpredictability.”

“You can predict a caravan trip as well as you can predict the shifting of sands.”

It sounds like a saying. “But you can observe the sands… And besides, you certainly can feel the shift, sandsinger.”

Dandolo chuckles, accepting the cup with both hands. “Somewhat. Just like I can predict, with high probability, how a trip would go. I needed it. I miss flying and caravaning.”

“Yes. I noticed.”

“But I miss the city, too, when I’m out.”

He thinks on his own ache. “Torn between them.”

“And others, not only these two things: plains and canyons, the Palace and the streets, the ice cold and stars of the night, and the bright heat of the day… When it’s summer, I miss winter and storms… It’s all those things.”

“You love so many and so much.”

Green eyes look at him. “I do.”

Melvin drops his gaze in his cup. “I feel like your love permeated the whole of Mars as you shared it with me. Thank you. It is strange to find out that I was blind to it all these years.”

“Perhaps not blind, but you saw it differently.”

He laughs. “No need to be so diplomatic, my Prince. I was _blinded_ , and Shadow knows it was easier that way: to close my eyes and let them do whatever they wanted to me — shape my views, guide my hand…”

“Melvin.”

“Forgive me. You are tired and need rest and I’m bothering you with my…” He gets up, his tea untouched.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. You are not leaving. I’m tired of watching you leave. Stay.”

Like he never could. He never could stay when he wanted, and never could leave when he wanted.

Dandolo stands up, too, the gaze of green eyes burning into Melvin. Melvin licks his lips.

“You said you don’t want to have a choice,” Dandolo purrs, and something in the canyon, far away and around them, rumbles in reply.

Melvin makes a step back — just to see whether Dandolo would follow…

Dandolo does. One step, two, three — broad and sure. People rarely notice that he is a physically powerful man, his personality obscures it when he doesn’t need it.

But now, now Melvin feels that power down to the tips of his fingers, and sparks dance, and he knows Dandolo wouldn’t flinch from them. From him.

Dandolo comes close, chest to chest, his breathing sweet. His gaze sweeps over Melvin’s face, and Melvin grows even hotter.

“You are such a good soldier, aren’t you, Melvin,” Dandolo purrs, and his burning hands take Melvin’s face. “Good at following orders. But Abundance doesn’t have you anymore — _I_ do. All of you. You are staying. You are _mine_.”

He gasps his surrender into the hard kiss.

Finally, he is taken.


End file.
